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No Convenience

In constant measure, at relentless pace,
makes meaningless: to stop, to pause, to rest.
For every endeavour an endless chase,
a continuous stream of life abreast.
If not one thing, another; all things merge,
detail is lost, rendered as a background blur.
Not something new, not a modern scourge,
simply this day prepared for life ‘du jour’.
Living alongside what has come and gone,
as to be repeated then multiplied.
Think of it as ‘de ja vous’, think upon
all things as one, where time and space collide.
. If time portrays no obedience,
. it qualifies as no convenience.

To the reader: In some respects, time is a container; a higgledy-piggledy box of events. Each day I select a sample of interests that I add to my biographical anthology. Unlike most boxes, this one is endlessly expandable; made of a curious material that responds to its content. It’s a durable, self-repairing material: water-proof, fire-proof, and wind-proof. It’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.

To the poet: This box is not a trap. When writing poetry, there’s an endless choice of material; content. Your sources are infinite; beyond experience, the only limit is the extent of your imagination. The poem (seen as a membrane) represents time: “it’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.”

Join the Journey

Author: Tim Grace

At the beginning of February 2010, I was at Brisbane Airport, in transit and on my way to Brunei. A hectic one-month work assignment was looming and I knew I would need some way of releasing my 'off task' thoughts. Fortunately, as it turns out, the airport bookshop had sold out of its copies of Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger died a few days earlier - 27/1/2010) - so, next to his empty plot was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets.
The seven hour flight to Brunei was the perfect length to finish all 154 sonnets. Obviously, there are some brilliant poems in amongst his life's work; but there are the occasional verses that leave you wondering. Read in a single sitting the sonnets collectively tell of an artist who was easily smitten by love, had an obsession with his mirrored image, was haunted by his increasing age and looming mortality. He often uses the changing seasons as a metaphor for these themes which are expressed in the context of a semi-rural environment.
While on assignment in Brunei, I resided at the Abdul Ruzaq serviced apartments and to escape the need to make a new eatery decision each night I surrendered my eating habits to the Charcoal Grill. At a table for one (and set for four) I usually settled into a routine consisting of menu selection, sonnet readings, dining; and to finish - a brewed coffee as the accompaniment to my own sonnet writing.